shadows fall [kaplan]

Marc had always trained as a career. He watched the Hunger Games each year almost religiously, up until Andy’s Games. When young Andesite Obsidian was reaped in front of the whole District, Marcasite froze. He should have volunteered, he knew that. Unfortunately, he didn’t, as he couldn’t get the words to cross the threshold of his lips. As a result, the fourteen year old brother that Marc had, but never actually met, was headed to his impending doom.

There was no way that the young boy possibly could have been prepared for the Games, no matter how much he may have wanted to think that he was. This was proven by Andy’s choice in allies; the girl from Eleven and the boy from Twelve. Then, it was further enforced by his training score of five, and the fact that, despite making it out of the bloodbath like all of the other tributes did, he still died first. He’d been too trusting that the other tributes wouldn’t attack him, and as a result, was killed quite swiftly.

Today, however, for some reason, Marc felt different. He felt the need to watch these Games. It had been five years since Andy’s death, and whenever he could avoid what was happening on the screen, he did. This year, however, he felt he should watch the bloodbath at the very least. As the tributes fought over supplies at the cornucopia, it was likely that there would at least be one death. After all, the last time there weren’t any deaths was five years ago, so it wasn’t a common occurrence.

Sitting on the only bench in the District Square that wasn’t completely full, Marc sat next to a girl he didn’t know. That didn’t matter, though. He was here to focus on the Games. He’d wanted to be in the Games to avenge Andy’s death ever since it occurred, but he never built up the courage to volunteer, and therefore, now at the age of twenty-one, no longer had the opportunity. The countdown had begun on the screen, now, and Marc’s eyes were laser-focused. He wanted to see how this would all go down.

As the gong sounded, the tributes charged through a pumpkin patch graveyard, hitting each other with fists and weapons alike. No one seemed to be falling, though. At least, not yet. Marc continued to watch. Would this be like the 72nd had been?

“Brutal, isn’t it?” Marc casually said aloud, not really expecting an answer. As the bloodbath continued, it eventually came down to four tributes all fighting against the girl from District Six. She barely escaped with her life, and that was that. No one had died. There would be no cannon sounds following this bloodbath. He wondered how long it would be until the first death of the 77th Hunger Games would occur. Would it be one of the youngest tributes, like it had been back then? Would it be the District Two boy, like it had been, then, too? Marc had no idea who the first death would be, but he knew it was likely to come soon.

Averting his gaze from the screen, he looked at the girl sitting next to him, and decided to speak.

“That was a little less deadly than expected, don’t ya think?”

---

544 words

Scar had seemed to have realized that what she was saying sounded like a load of crap to Marc. Her condolences just blended with everything else that Marc had heard over the years. When she told him that she knew it meant nothing to him, he nodded. The older boy was honestly tired of hearing people feel sorry for him. He didn’t even tell his parents that he felt sorry for them anymore. Marc knew they were still quite upset over it, but he also knew that trying to console them wouldn’t mean anything. After all, it didn’t mean anything to Marc anymore. Perhaps it did at first, but it didn’t now.

Marc noticed that Scar’s gaze returned to the screen, but she spoke to him anyway as a cool breeze blew through the area. She mentioned that he looked too old to be reaped, and he nodded in response. Then, he realized that since she was looking away, she couldn’t see his nodding. He sighed before speaking again. In all honesty, he hated that he couldn’t be reaped.

“I am. I haven’t been young enough since the 74th Games,” he told her. “I was sixteen when my brother was reaped. I could have taken his place, but I didn’t. It makes me feel like shit. He should be the one who’s still alive, not me.”

It wasn’t that Marc wanted to be dead. No, he liked living. He just wished that Andy were still alive. He wished that they could have bonded before the young boy died. Perhaps they would have had that chance, had Marc even visited him in the Justice Building. He didn’t, though, and that made him feel like a terrible brother. He didn’t take his place, and he didn’t even say goodbye. They hadn’t spoken a word that day, when Andy was torn away from District Two.

In all actuality, they hadn’t spoken in years. Andy was adopted by a man named Flynn at the age of four. Marc only spoke to his brother once in the time that he was with Flynn, and didn’t even reveal that they were related, because, at the time, he didn’t know. Andy never knew who Marc was. Marc never knew who Andy was. The only way Marc discovered that Andy was his brother was when the 72nd reaping occurred. When the last name of ‘Obsidian’ boomed across the District Square, it wasn’t his own, and Marc questioned his father about it.

That was when the truth came out. Their father, Pyrite Obsidian, had explained who Andy was, and why they never knew each other. Marc was in a state of extreme rage for quite a while after he found out, and shut himself away when Andy was attacked and killed on the first day. There were weeks at a time where Marc would barely speak a word to his parents for not telling him. Eventually, by the time the 73rd Games came around, they were on more of speaking terms, but Marc began to feel terrible for not volunteering for the boy he never truly knew.

Scar was giving Marc the hard truth, and to be entirely honest, that's what he needed. He couldn't be babied over the fact that he lost his brother. He'd barely even known Andy, even though they had the same parents. It was actually quite sad that he cared so much about someone he'd known so little. Regardless, that was the way he felt.

"I know, I get it. We can't do anything about it, though. That's how life is, now." When she spoke again, she mentioned that he parents wanted her to volunteer for the Hunger Games next year. That was when a question immediately spilled from Marc's mouth. "Do you want to?"

He knew that when he was of reaping age, he wanted to volunteer. Unfortunately, he never actually built up the courage to do so. At this point in his life, he wished he had. Even if it were after his brother died in the Games, he still wanted to go in and fight. He'd been a passionate career his whole life, after all.

She called herself a weapon, and Marc immediately knew what that made him.

"If you're a weapon, then I create weapons. I train careers. I train those who go into the Games to fight, and I hate to admit it, but I've never had one come back alive." He told her all this while unsure of what his intentions were. Why did all these things even matter? Did she need to know all of this? It really wasn't anything all that important. It just happened to fit well into the conversation at hand.

"I wish I were better at it. I wish I could train someone that would come back a victor, but I just don't think it's possible anymore."

Scarlet wanted to know Marc's weapon of choice, and since, at this point, everyone who trained under him, along with many other people already knew, he figured he didn't mind saying. Besides, it's not like it still needed to be a secret, either. He couldn't go into the Games anymore, anyways.

"I like to use a javelin," he told her. That was the total truth, too. He wasn't sure if she'd answer, but he decided to shoot the same question right back to her. "What about yourself, if I may ask?"

He wasn't sure what peaked his curiosity about her weapon choice, but whatever it was was enough to make him actually ask her. Perhaps it was something inside him that just made him all that much more curious today.